


Wanted: Dead or Alive

by distantglory



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Dirge of Cerberus: Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Canon Compliant, Crack, Gen, Nero is also kinda Done with everything, Shelke is Done with everything, but it's Deepground crack so the humor's pretty dark, it's hard being the only two semi-sane people in Deepground
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-30
Updated: 2016-03-30
Packaged: 2018-05-30 04:54:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6409606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distantglory/pseuds/distantglory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shelke had her reasons for ordering for the Keeper of the Protomateria to be taken dead or alive. Which is good, because Nero wants an explanation for it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wanted: Dead or Alive

**Author's Note:**

> As the tags say, this is crack. But as the tags ALSO say, it's Deepground crack. So there's violence and death, and people being very callous about violence and death.
> 
> This is meant to take place somewhere during (and a little after) the events in Edge, but before the first assault on WRO headquarters.

The first thing that Shelke heard upon awakening was the tapping of keys. This was somewhat alarming, because of all the Tsviets, she seemed to be the only one capable of handling technology without breaking it—and since being cut off from the outside world three years ago, Deepground was short on replacements for damaged consoles. Pausing only to briefly assess her physical state (much restored by a mako bath, though still with the lingering headache that an exhausted collapse always gave her), she opened her eyes and sat up.

Nero stepped away from the console on the other side of the room. Shelke noted, with some annoyance, that it wasn’t even turned on.

At least he had unbound his arms, rather than used the clawed fingers of the wing-hands.

“Ah, Shelke,” said Nero. “Awake at last. Did the Researchers ever discover that the threat of damaged technology roused you most efficiently? They could have saved themselves a large amount of stimulants.”

Shelke sometimes wondered what it would be like to serve a superior who didn’t consider himself the height of wit. Weiss laboured under the same apprehension.

At least Nero’s sense of humour relied more on pointed remarks than pointed weapons.

“I don’t think so,” she replied. “Did you need me for something, Nero?”

“Not at all,” he replied. “I merely thought that I would take time away from my tasks to watch you sleep the week away.” He tilted his head, watching her from beneath the ragged sweep of his overgrown fringe.

Shelke waited. Long experience had taught her that any attempt at rejoinder would only prolong the ordeal.

After a silent minute, Nero tutted. “You are so little sport when you first wake.” He raised one hand and thrust it into a wailing sphere of darkness, withdrawing after a moment with a clipboard. “Explain this report, if you please.” He tossed it onto the end of her bed. Rather than make the undignified stretch—or worse, crawl—Shelke swung out from under the covers and padded to the end of the bed to pick it up. She chose to ignore Nero’s dramatically disappointed sigh. If he wanted _sport_ , he could trouble Azul or Rosso.

The report came from one of the soldiers involved in the Kalm mission. Shelke skimmed it, noting that nearly two hundred of the pure had been collected, but a hundred or so soldiers lost. Not an unacceptable outcome—Deepground had plenty of reserves—but something that would have to be monitored. This particular officer had been informed, like every soldier sent aboveground, of the necessity of finding and detaining the Keeper of the Protomateria. Fortunately for the officer, he had not been one of those that had encountered Vincent Valentine, and consequently dispatched back to the Lifestream.

“I see nothing that needs explanation,” she said.

“Is that so?” Nero plucked the clipboard from her grasp and flicked through the pages. Finding the line he wanted, he handed it back to her, tapping the place with one black nail.

Obediently, Shelke read.

_The order was given to capture the Keeper of the Protomateria dead or alive…_

Ah.

“You _are_ aware, Shelke, that we need Vincent Valentine to be captured alive, are you not?” Nero arched an eyebrow at her. “Unless you would like to test our soldiers’ abilities to interrogate a corpse? Or are you experimenting with _your_ ability to gather neurodata from the deceased?”

Shelke ignored both of these accusations. “I am aware.”

Nero’s tone turned silky. “Then _why_ is death presented as an option?”

“I don’t see how it matters,” said Shelke. “I doubt that the drones are capable of killing Vincent Valentine. But in attempting it, they may manage to subdue him.” Flipping the pages back to their appropriate places, she held out the clipboard, hoping that Nero would take the hint as an end to the discussion.

Nero did not.

“Such pretty logic,” he said, paying no attention to her outstretched arm. “I would be more inclined to believe such intricate reasoning if the order had not been issued _before_ we could ascertain Valentine’s skills.”

Internally, Shelke sighed. It had been a clumsy evasion. She should have expected that it would not succeed.

But it had seemed preferable to explaining the true reason for the phrasing of the order.

She continued to hold out the clipboard. Nero continued to ignore it.

“I will ask you again, Shelke, and if you do not answer truthfully, I will shoot you.” His eyes swept up and down her body. “Your foot, perhaps. You are hardly needed in combat for this operation, and this would still permit you the use of your SND ability. _Why_ was death presented as an option, when you knew very well that we require Valentine alive?”

Obviously, Nero was not going to let this go, and Shelke’s arm was beginning to ache. She dropped it to her side. “Because the rank and file of Deepground are incapable of understanding the concept of ‘live capture’.”

There was a long silence. Shelke actually saw the moment when Nero decided that his curiosity (never ‘confusion’) outweighed his desire her to shoot her for such an obvious lie.

After all, he could always shoot her after she explained herself.

“Tell me, how hard did you strike your head when you fainted?” he asked. “I grant that the drones have little in the way of intelligence left to them, but thus far they’ve had no difficulties with the concept when gathering the pure.”

Shelke wished for the freedom to pinch the bridge of her nose. Her lingering headache was beginning to intensify.

“I have not yet determined the precise parameters of their understanding,” she said. “Possibly has something to do with the orders relating to a group, rather than an individual; or the knowledge that the pure must be killed in a specific manner. But I can state with certainty that Deepground soldiers cannot understand ‘live capture’ as it relates to a single person.”

There was another long silence. Nero’s gaze bored into her, as though he could intimidate her into confession merely by looking. Shelke would have felt insulted if she hadn’t witnessed him use the technique to great effect on others.

Eventually, he seemed to realise that it wasn’t going to work, and made a disgusted sound. He drew one pistol, aiming it at Shelke’s left foot.

“I am not in the habit of granting second chances, Shelke,” he said. “I have _never_ granted a third.”

Shelke was not afraid. She was fresh from a mako bath and could easily dodge the shot; failing that, she still carried her shield materia. Still, it would be needlessly provocative to dodge Nero’s attempts, and she didn’t see any reason to endure the pain of a gunshot wound if it wasn’t necessary.

“Would you consider postponing my injury, so that I can demonstrate the truth of my statement?” she asked.

Nero’s eyes narrowed. “A demonstration?”

“Yes. It would not take much time, and if I am lying, you can still shoot me.”

Nero examined this offer carefully. Finally, he holstered his gun again.

“Very well. How do you intend to prove your claim?”

Shelke allowed herself a very small smile. “Move away from my terminal,” she said, “and I will show you.”

 

* * *

 

Half an hour later, a dozen soldiers filed into one of the training rooms.

“I presume you _are_ going to explain yourself at some point,” said Nero, as the soldiers lined up and saluted.

“What you are going to see will speak for itself,” replied Shelke. She stepped forward, pointing to a pair at one end of the line. “You two,” she said. “Step forward.”

They did so.

Shelke indicated the one on the left. “You. Your task is to subdue him.” She indicated the other. “He is wanted alive.”

Then she stepped back again.

“Begin.”

The words had barely left her mouth before a gunshot rang through the room. As the echoes died away, the designated victim hit the ground with a muffled _whump._ The pieces of his shattered helmet jangled against the concrete floor. Blood and brain seeped from the wound, trickling into the guttering that divided the room into neat sections. The attacker tipped his gun back against his shoulder, turned back to Shelke and saluted.

Even though she had expected the outcome, Shelke still had to resist the urge to sigh. She pointed to the next soldier in the line.

“You. Subdue him—alive.”

Shelke knew that the soldiers of Deepground were not incapable of problem solving. This one had obviously realised that his victim had not completed the task assigned to him, and opted for another approach.

His victim collapsed with a bloodstain spreading across his chest.

Shelke did not pause. She pointed to the next soldier in line.

“You. Subdue him—alive.”

This soldier had learned from the mistakes of the previous two. She did not fire her gun, but instead raised the butt and clubbed her victim hard. He collapsed, and the soldier standing over him hesitated.

Behind Shelke, Nero stirred. “Well, Shelke, you seem to have been proven—”

He was interrupted by a rhythmic thumping noise, which became steadily more fleshy as the butt of the soldier’s gun broke through her victim’s helmet and cracked his skull—then pounded his brains into the floor.

Shelke did not acknowledge Nero’s aborted speech. It was always safer to ignore the times that Nero made a mistake.

But she did feel a muted warmth that might have qualified as amusement in someone else. After knowing her for so many years, he really should know better than to think she made claims without evidence to back them up.

She ordered the next soldier forward. He eschewed his gun, instead drawing a sword and decapitating his designated target.

The orders were repeated again. The decapitator was skewered through the heart.

Again—the skewerer’s blood decorated not only his current square of floor, but the next three in front of him as his throat was cut.

Again—the throat-cutter was eviscerated, trying to shove the fleshy ropes of her intestines back into her stomach even as she fell.

Again—the eviscerator staggered backwards, groping fruitlessly for the knife that had pierced her helmet and penetrated her left eye socket.

Again—the knife-wielder’s neck twisted under his attacker’s hands with an audible _snap_.

Again—the neck-breaker toppled to the floor, nose pulverised into a red mess by the palm-strike that had driven bone splinters into her brain.

Again—the striker was borne to the floor, struggles growing increasingly feebler as his strangler’s hands tightened around his throat. Shelke and Nero watched in silence as the last remaining soldier held his grip until his victim was completely still—and then for a further five minutes. At last he released the corpse, standing and saluting to the two Tsviets.

From behind Shelke, there was a deep sigh. “So close.”

The gunshot was not entirely unexpected. The last soldier joined his eleven brethren on the floor, the blue glass of his visor shattered through the centre.

“And yet, so far,” concluded Nero. There was the faint sound of metal scraping leather as he holstered his gun again, and Shelke removed her hand from her shield materia.

“Well, Shelke, I congratulate you,” he said, as she turned back towards him. “You avoid injury today—by me, at least.”

“I’m grateful.” She tried not to sound sarcastic, but some of it must have leaked into her voice. Nero flicked her a sharp glance.

 “You may be less so, before you are done,” he said, ominously. He nodded towards the pile of corpses. “Have that cleaned up.” He vanished into a cloud of darkness.

Shelke sighed. She had already mentally translated Nero’s parting words to, _Since you have the deepest understanding of this problem, it falls to you to find a solution._

She was going to need her terminal again.

 

* * *

 

She had the necessary reports printed and placed in a neat stack at her elbow by the time that Nero returned.

“We appear to be progressing on schedule,” she said, indicating the screen where she had been viewing reports. “The pure from Kalm have been prepared for processing, and our forces have been reorganised for their next deployment. Casualties were higher than usual, but we have yet to lose a complete force.”

“Good,” said Nero, pulling up a chair. His wings flared like the threat display of a predatory bird as he took a seat. "And now that you have made your token evasion..." The wings creaked back to their folded state. "...what more can you tell me about this failure of our forces to understand the difference between life and death?”

Sometimes, Shelke also wondered what it would be like to serve a superior who wasn't prone to needless dramatics.

"I made several attempts to educate the soldiers before they were dispatched. All were failures." Before Nero could speak, she hurried on, "I don't believe that the lack of understanding will affect their task. From what I witnessed in Kalm, and from the reports I have read, Vincent Valentine is far more skilled than a typical Deepground soldier and will easily—"

Nero cut her off. "'Several attempts'," he quoted, crushing the last of Shelke's minuscule hopes that this matter might be allowed to pass. "And what, precisely, did you try?"

With an inward sigh, she collected her printouts and handed them over. Nero flicked rapidly through the pages. 

"Let me see...execution of offenders, beatings, sleep deprivation, withholding rations, extra training, cleaning duties, structural repair... I did wonder why Azul's latest door incident was so quickly taken care of."

"We are running short of materials with which to complete those repairs," said Shelke. She was resigned to her explanation; but that didn’t mean that she wouldn’t use this time as productively as possible.

And if Nero was distracted by _actual_ problems, then so much the better. 

"Azul will not be spending much time here during this mission," said Nero, without looking up. "And he may destroy as many doors aboveground as he wishes." His finger continued to run down the page. "Assignment to Rosso...you were getting desperate, weren't you? Rosso has been in much better humour since we loosed her on the WRO. She complains that they are too easy to kill, but even so, she has killed only a dozen of the soldiers under her command since she was dispatched. Hardly any."

Shelke conceded this with a nod. "Assignment to her command is somewhat less than a death sentence, these days."

"Indeed. A canny soldier might even survive it," said Nero, with a snort that told Shelke exactly what he thought of the possibility. One finger tapped the page. "Still, you seem to have covered the accepted methods of punishment for failure. None of this was effective?"

"None," confirmed Shelke. "I did attempt some more...unorthodox methods, in addition to the traditional ones."

Judging by the frown on Nero's face, he had reached that section of the report. "You offered them...rewards?"

"The technique is known as 'positive reinforcement'. It is relatively common, in aboveground organisations."

Nero's frown intensified as he read further. "You let them live despite their mistake. What other reward is needed?” 

"Aboveground organisations do not habitually punish their employees for mistakes with death or beatings. Consequently, rewards must be more substantial."

Nero stopped reading. He stared at her; and after several long moments of silence, he asked, "Does the WRO follow these...guidelines?"

"From what I have been able to discover, yes, they do.” 

Nero shook his head. "No wonder they are such ineffective soldiers. How do they ever manage to motivate their people?"

Shelke decided that it was not worth the time it would take to explain benevolent encouragement. "I don't know."

Nero returned to the report. It didn't take long for him to reach the end. "What about SND? You fail to mention that possibility."

"It isn’t one. The chance of someone surviving so drastic a change to their neural network is unacceptably low. To create the numbers necessary to subdue Valentine would take time and resources that we don't have."

Nero let the pages fall back into order. "Then there is no help for it," he said. "The drones cannot be trusted with the task."

He stated it as though it were a solution in itself. Shelke resisted the urge to slap a hand to her face; such a blatant show of disrespect would only earn her the bullet to her foot that she had gone to so much trouble to avoid. If Nero had not yet realised the impracticality of his conclusion, she would have to lead him to it.

She put a note of puzzlement into her voice. "Then who can be?" Nero would have to discount himself; he was needed in the field. Kalm had only proved that collateral damage to the pure was an inevitability when the elimination of the tainted was given to the rank and file of Deepground, while Nero’s abilities were uniquely suited to avoiding that.

"Why, isn't it obvious?" said Nero, mock-surprised. "You, of course."

Shelke stared at him. Surely she had misheard; this was skipping several logical steps. But the way that Nero's eyes were crinkling at the edges, suggesting a smirk beneath that concealing muzzle, told her that she had not. He seemed to think he had outwitted her.

"Impossible," she said.

Nero tutted. "Such little faith in your own abilities."

"I have every faith in my own abilities," retorted Shelke. "But my skills are better employed elsewhere. While I was assigned to locating Valentine, our efficiency dropped considerably. I can reduce the amount of time necessary to gather sufficient numbers of the pure—"

Nero held up one hand. Obediently—if reluctantly—Shelke fell silent. 

"Take a moment to consider our other options, Shelke," said Nero. "I could send Rosso—who suffers from the same lack of understanding that apparently plagues our soldiers—and leave you to try to learn the location of the Protomateria from his mangled corpse..."

Shelke could feel her headache beginning to return. Apparently, Nero had _not_ skipped the logical steps; he just hadn’t articulated them.

"...or I could send Azul—who, despite possessing both the necessary understanding and the ability to follow orders—is also prone to breaking everything he touches. What does the latest door incident bring the total to? Eighty-something in a year?"

"Ninety-six," corrected Shelke automatically. "Within the last six months."

Nero inclined his head. "Which only strengthens my point. Though I concede that is a lower number than in previous years, it does not fill me with confidence that Azul would be capable of subduing Valentine without, quite accidentally, crushing him to paste. And as clever as you are, Shelke, I doubt that even you can devise a method of interrogating paste." The corners of his eyes crinkled again. "Besides, for all your protests, I suspect that you have already made plans for how you might achieve this little task."

To her dismay, Shelke realised that she had. It would certainly be possible. Valentine favoured guns as his weapon, and while she was not bulletproof in the manner of Azul or Weiss, she was fast enough to dodge gunfire—or she had her shield materia. The Transparent form made stealth easier for her than any other Tsviet, and she could regulate the flow of energy in her sabres to subdue rather than damage. If she was quick and careful, she might not even have to fight.

If she hadn't been so irritated that she had been outmanoeuvred, and was consequently going to have to take on _another_ task, she might have conceded that she really was the best choice for this mission.

"I have considered some possibilities," she allowed, trying not to let her annoyance colour her voice.

Either she succeeded, or Nero ignored it. "Then as soon as we receive new intelligence about Valentine's location—"

He was interrupted by the sound of the door opening. Both Nero and Shelke reached for their weapons.

The fact that it was Rosso at the door was not immediately reassuring.

“Isn’t _this_ scandalous,” she said, red eyes gleaming. “Nero, you never mentioned that you were sending me away so that you could spend more time with your pet. I would have taken my time in returning, had I known.”

Nero slowly—reluctantly, Shelke was sure—slipped his guns back into their holsters. She followed his lead. "You are late,” he told Rosso.

“But I have such good news,” she cooed. “I came to tell you as soon as I learned it.” She paused—apparently, only for dramatic effect. For the second time in an hour, Shelke wondered what it might be like to have superiors who weren’t prone to dramatics.

Rosso’s next words banished that thought completely. “I have located the Protomateria.”

 

* * *

 

Shelke expected Nero to speak after he ordered Rosso away to make her report and prepare for her next deployment. She wasn’t sure what she expected him to say—what _could_ be said, after such a startling discovery? But at the very least, he could blame Shelke for not knowing that the Protomateria was literally _embedded in Valentine’s chest._

Shelke was somewhat annoyed by that herself.

But instead, Nero had been staring into space since the door had closed.

“How is it,” he asked eventually, still staring at the far wall, “that the sole time that Rosso _obeys_ an order to leave someone alive, she creates more trouble than if she hadn’t?”

There didn’t seem to be a correct answer to give to this; but Nero didn’t seem to expect one.

“ _Why?_ ” he asked of no-one.

At a loss for what else to do—it sounded like Nero was having a minor existential crisis over the incident, which was somewhat worrying—Shelke changed the subject. “Shall I tell Azul that Valentine will be one of his targets in the assault on the WRO headquarters?” 

It seemed to fulfil its purpose. Nero refocused on her. “Still trying to dodge your orders? No. I leave Azul to create chaos. It is what he is best at. Valentine is still your responsibility.” He tapped his chin with one finger. “And as long as you are there, you may as well take on the assassination of Reeve Tuesti as well. The WRO is becoming an annoyance. They will be less so with their leader dead.”

Shelke’s vague concern for Nero’s mental state vanished. If he was adding to her workload—again—then he was obviously fine. At least she could undertake this one while hunting Valentine, since Rosso had informed them that he was on his way to the WRO headquarters. "Very well. “

Nero rose from his chair. “You may as well reissue the orders about Valentine. ‘Kill on sight’ should cause far fewer problems.”

“One would hope,” said Shelke, turning back to her terminal.

Behind her, she heard Nero sigh. “At least _one_ problem has been solved. Try not to cause any others, Shelke. You’re the only one still with a clean record, in that regard.”

Shelke’s hands stilled on the keyboard; but before she could think of some reply to this extraordinary statement, Nero had vanished into howling darkness.

It was several long moments before she resumed her work.

If Nero was saying something that could almost be construed as _nice_ , maybe she _should_ be more concerned about his mental state...

After she had completed the tasks he had set her. Shelke got back to work.


End file.
